


none more broken than a whole heart

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Imagined blood loss, M/M, Nightmares, Objectification, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 19:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20441531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: John stays where he is and doesn't wipe his mouth.





	none more broken than a whole heart

A few weeks ago, a little over a month, Harold asked him: "What exactly do you intend to do with that information?"

John grinned at him. "Maybe I just want a good look at your book collection in case I want to borrow something."

Harold gave a pointed look to the book John had in his lap, blatantly unread. "Is that so."

"What else would I do with your address?" John doesn't bat his eyelashes, but it's a close thing.

A little over a month; a lifetime ago.

* * *

Nighttime finds John prowling the street. This kind of nocturnal roaming isn't new to him, but now, even as he takes circucious, winding routes, he has a purpose. He moves through the streets in an irregular, ever-tightening spiral.

The location, where John is in relation to it, are always somewhere in John's awareness. John's thinking less about dying these days, and when he does, it doesn't hold that same old appeal, but he still has glimmers. Not that he intends to do anything, just... if he got shot -- not fatally, but almost. He likes the idea of staggering here, spending his last breaths on Harold's doorstep.

John tries not to talk about it. It would only upset Harold, and not in a fun way. He keeps it close to his chest, a guilty pleasure: the thought of dying for Harold, in Harold's service, under his auspices. In Harold's arms, rarely, when he can stand thinking about that. It's easier to think of bringing his own walking corpse to Harold's house like a cat bringing a final gift. 

The door is locked. John doesn't have a key. He just looks into the camera above the door, waits for it to scan his iris, and walks in as the door opens silently. 

The crowded mess that is Harold's bedroom delights John. Books on every surface, papers everywhere conceivable, electronics constantly underfoot. And Harold's clothes, admittedly, hung up or set down carefully folded -- but rather than being hidden in some closet, they are all around the room, Harold making a secret display of himself. 

On the bed, Harold is snuffling in his sleep. Good. John was worried he'd find Harold passed out over a keyboard again. John also has a fondness for picking Harold up and depositing him in bed, but it's not worth the way Harold is the next day, snippy with pain and fatigue.

John sits on the floor with his legs crossed, amidst a tidy row of Harold's shoes. He rubs the cuff of the shirt Harold bought him between thumb and forefinger.

Harold sleeps. John doesn't. 

Around four AM the noises from the bed start sounding distressed. Urgent. John keeps himself still even as Harold cries out in his sleep. Harold -- they have found out -- does not appreciate being woken out of nightmares. That's not John's function, here.

The nightmare feels like it lasts forever. It takes seven minutes, according the red LED alarm clock next to Harold's bed. John knows it's over not because Harold bolts upright, but because he stills. Maybe Harold will just go back to sleep. He does that sometimes. 

Harold sighs, pushes the blanket away, and gets up.

John doesn't. He stays exactly where he is, on the floor, among all of Harold's strewn belongings. He waits for Harold to come to him, as patient as a chair waiting to be sat on. Harold doesn't ask before threading his fingers into John's hair and angling his head into position.

(They've talked about this; John thought his ears might fall off from all the talking. But they got here, eventually, even if Harold spent much longer than John would have liked dithering about it.)

With his other hand, Harold guides his soft dick into John's mouth. John doesn't suck. He keeps Harold warm, patient as Harold grows in his mouth.

Harold's still less than half hard when he retreats, moves towards the bed, pulling John by the hair to bring him along. John follows. A bit of arrangement later, Harold is sitting down on the edge of the bed and John is kneeling between his legs, back to keeping Harold's cock secure and comfortable in his mouth. 

Slowly, slowly, Harold's cock hardens. The ache in John's jaws and his knees sinks into him, a familiar companion. Harold still doesn't say a word, doesn't touch John apart from his hand in John's hair and his cock in John's mouth. 

Some nights Harold comes like this. Tonight, his breathing becomes even, and finally he pulls out. His cock juts, gleaming in the moonlight coming in through the window. John doesn't chase after it. He has better discipline than that. Harold lies back down, settles himself onto the numerous pillows on the bed. He's snoring in short order. 

John stays where he is and doesn't wipe his mouth. The pain in his knees is meditative, helps him be what he needs to be: a container for Harold to pour his grief and fear into. John knows he's damaged goods, but right now, he can find satisfaction in that. There's nothing Harold can give him, no matter how stained and broken and aching, that doesn't feel like a gift.


End file.
